Who wouldn’t be? This kind of irony is a rare breed.
"Marry me, he said, through his rotten teeth, bad breath, and then Marry me instead of that strapping young goatherd, but when I was in his bed, and my father had sold me I knew I hadn’t any choice, hushed my voice, did what any girl would do and When I’m beheaded at least I was wedded And when I am buried at least I was married I’ll hid my behavior with wine as my savior
But, oh, what beautiful things I’ll wear What beautiful dresses and hair I’m lucky to share his bed Especially since I’ll soon be dead
Marry me, he said, god, he’s ugly, but fortune is ours Running in the gardens enjoying men, women and flowers Then I break a glass and I slit my own innermost thigh So that I can pretend that I’m menstru…well, unavailable My life is arranged but this union’s deranged So I’ll fuck who I choose for I’ve nothing to lose And when master’s displeased, I’ll be down on my knees again
When dining on peacock I know I won’t swallow Through balls, births and bridge games I know what will follow We’re couple together through hell, hurt and hunger Or at least until husband finds someone younger Yes, fertilization is part of my station I laugh as he drabs me in anticipation Of sons who will run things when I’m under covers But whose children are they? Why, mine and my lover’s!”